


Veni, Vidi, Amavi

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But the central theme of this fic is still Johnlock, Did I mention pining, Dogs, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, John Misses Sherlock, John Watson and Dogs, John is so in love with Sherlock and he has no idea because he's an idiot, John's jumpers- Freeform, M/M, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock and Dogs, Slow Burn, The dog is an arsehole genius too and that’s why John adores her, Time Skips, UST, dogs are awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Veni, Vidi, Amavi. Latin. "I came, I saw, I loved."Post-Reichenbach AU in which John gets a dog after Sherlock's apparent death. With a furry companion in his life, he finds himself better equipped to deal with the grief. Even so, he can never seem to get his mind off Sherlock.Written for GizmoTrinket, whose prompt was: "AU Where John gets a dog instead of a wife after the fall."





	1. One Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GizmoTrinket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/gifts).



> "Love does not choose. It's like water. It goes to wherever it's needed." -Yoko Ono

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a week since John lost Sherlock.
> 
> John hasn’t slept much. John has eaten even less.
> 
> John is fine.

As John sits in the backseat of the taxicab on his way to Baker Street, his eyes burn, his mouth is dry, and there’s a deep pressure wringing his chest. Everything surrounding him is a stifled, colourless haze. He’s numb. That’s the only way he can describe it, really.

Ella keeps reminding him that it’s okay to cry; that the release would be constructive in the grieving process. So far, John hasn’t had much luck with the process. It’s not that he’s got something against crying—he’s just afraid that once it starts, it isn’t going to stop. He's afraid that he’ll become trapped again, returning to the dark space he was in before Sherlock.

Now and then, John's eyes begin to burn as tears spring up, and he briefly embraces the moment before forcing it to pass. One such time had been earlier that afternoon, when Mrs. Hudson had left him alone at the cemetery. There, in front of Sherlock's gravestone, John had lowered his head, covered his face, and wept into the palm of his hand.

The drive to the flat is completely silent, other than the muffled sounds of passing traffic. Even Mrs. Hudson, usually uncomfortable with lulls in conversation, doesn’t say a thing. John knows it’s for his benefit. He reminds himself to thank her later.

Time seems to drag on. Every few minutes, the cab passes a landmark that reminds John of Sherlock, and memories sweep in with a prick of pain like a freshly opened wound.

At 5:38, it’s the restaurant where they had set up a stakeout to catch the members of a Colombian drug ring. At 5:43, it’s the theatre they had investigated during the murder of a local ballerina. At 5:51, it’s the alleyway where once, they had been walking home, and had stumbled across a dead body by accident.

John entertains the thought of asking the driver to change routes, avoiding all the places he and Sherlock had been for cases. His head throbs as he realises how impossible that would be. There isn’t much of London that the two hadn’t run through before, hearts pumping and drunk on adrenaline.

So, instead, he squeezes his eyes shut for the remainder of the drive.  

It’s been a week since John lost Sherlock.

John hasn’t slept much. John has eaten even less.

John is fine.

Honestly, he could have returned to work the day after it all happened. He had tried to, actually, but upon walking into the clinic, Sarah had immediately given him a sympathetic hug and had ordered him to leave. “Go home, John,” she had said softly. “Take a few days off work to mourn your partner, for fuck’s sake.” And there had been a flash of sorrow in her eyes as she had uttered the word _partner._

The cab pulls up next to the kerb at 221 Baker Street. John wordlessly hands the driver some cash and nods a stoic _thank you_ in his direction. He and Mrs. Hudson walk to the front door. It’s something John has done countless times, and yet now, the comfort of arriving at his own doorstep has been replaced by the gnawing feelings of apprehension, sadness, and guilt.

Once he and Mrs. Hudson pass the threshold, she turns to face him. She doesn’t even attempt to hide the pity on her face. Taking John’s hands into hers, she looks up at him sadly. “Anything you need, Dear…” 

“No, I’m—" John begins, but his voice is hoarse; both from lack of use and from dehydration. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m alright, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll have my things packed up and cleared out of the flat by the end of next week.”

“Oh, John,” she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth before shaking her head. “I really wish you’d just stay here. This is your home, after all.”

She’s got it wrong, of course. It isn’t _John’s_ home. It’s _John and Sherlock’s_ home. The flat that they had _shared_. And without Sherlock there, all John has are echoes of his existence—ruminations, lingering reminders that their time together is over.

“Thank you,” John manages to say. “But I don’t think it’s possible for me to stay here.”

“You needn’t worry about money,” Mrs. Hudson adds. “We can work something out. I don’t care about that, you know. You’re family now.”

“I appreciate it.” John forces himself to smile weakly at her. “Truly, I do. But money’s really got nothing to do with it.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes grow moist with tears. “I understand,” she responds. And John knows that she does.

“Goodnight, then, Dear,” she says. “You take care.” She squeezes his hands once before dropping them and heading into her flat.

Really, John will be okay. He’s a former Army Captain. He’s dealt with this type of loss before. Close friends had died; people he'd considered his brothers. People he’d have lain down his life for; people who had done the same for him.

It’s just going to take him a little time.

He turns and treads stiffly up the seventeen steps to Apartment B. It feels as though he’s climbing Mount Everest. He unlocks the front door and throws his keys and jacket onto the floor. As he passes the kitchen, he tosses a glance toward the refrigerator and considers, for a second, putting food in his stomach. The second passes. He catches his reflection in the mantelpiece mirror and he barely recognises the person staring back. His skin is dull; his shrunken eyes are rimmed with red and embedded in dark circles.

God, he needs sleep.

He forces himself into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Groggily, he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and begins the journey back to the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

As he passes by the window, a slight movement outside catches his eye.

He walks closer and peeks out, squinting, and he realises that there is something perched in front of the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. With only the illumination of the street lamps at his disposal, it’s difficult to make out at first—but it appears to be a lump of coarse, matted fur. As his sight adjusts to the darkness, John realises that a pair of charcoal-coloured eyes are gazing up at him.

“Oh,” he exhales in mild shock. “Hey there, you.” John smiles faintly—something that he hadn’t done in days.

Sitting there, still as a statue, is a dog. A mixed breed of some sort, medium in size. Its fur is a light brownish colour, spotted with white. Its ears hang, floppily, at the sides of its head; its tail is a short, white stub. The dog doesn’t break its gaze as John peers back at it; its paws padding the ground, tail twitching as it tilts its head inquisitively.

Unsure of how to react, John stands there for several seconds, in the midst of a staring contest with a dog he’d never met. It’s all a bit strange. Of course, sometimes, stray dogs roam around the Baker Street area, but they don’t normally sit frozen at his doorstep, looking up into the window like some sort of Peeping Tom.

Turning away and closing the curtains over the window, John tries to remember if any of the neighbours have a dog. One of them must have gotten a new one, he decides. Or perhaps it belongs to a customer at Speedy's. He lets it fall from his mind as he continues to the kitchen to make his drink.

After a few sips, he heads to the sofa, plunking down before setting his glass on the coffee table. His eyelids are impossibly heavy. He closes them and his thoughts drift to earlier that day, at the cemetery, when he’d spoken to Sherlock as though he were actually with him. He’d told Sherlock how alone he had been before they’d met, and that Sherlock was the most human human being he had ever known. He’d told him that knew Sherlock would never have lied to him.

He had begged Sherlock to stop being dead.

In the final moment of consciousness, John is hit with a sudden sensation—the memory of Sherlock’s scent. It’s a heady mixture of honey lavender shampoo, wool, and a hint of mint with tobacco. His heart surges as the comforting memory returns to him, and he wills himself to hold on to it for as long as he possibly can.

All too soon, though, sleep overtakes him, and John slips into a shallow, dreamless slumber.


	2. Rooms Fall Hushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John Watson will be whatever they want John Watson to be, as long as they know the truth about Sherlock Holmes. That he wasn’t a fake. That he was just as amazing and wonderful as he appeared to be. That he could tell someone their own life story by the brand of eyeliner they wore; where they had dined last Tuesday by a scuff mark on their shoe; their military history based on a haircut._

Around 7 am, the sun begins to peek in through the window of the sitting room. As John’s eyes flutter open, a deep wave of reality crashes into him—a reminder of the world he’s woken up to. He’s still in yesterday’s clothing, and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping on the sofa. He curses under his breath and sits up before dragging himself to his bedroom to get ready for work.

He walks in and opens his wardrobe. He hasn’t done laundry since Sherlock left. Rummaging around, he finds his green plaid patterned button-up and some khakis. After divesting himself of his current clothes by unceremoniously dropping them to the floor, he drifts downstairs to the bathroom. He reaches into the shower and turns the water on as hot as it will go before he steps in. Letting the water cascade over his shoulders, he stares at the wall, thinking about absolutely nothing. He’s not sure how long he does this for, but at some point, he realises that the entire room has become filled with steam, and that his skin is burning.

His actions are carried out as though he’s a puppet; thoughtlessly, habitually. He washes up, dries himself off, and heads to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. When he opens the refrigerator to make himself lunch, he finds himself quietly hoping to see spare body parts. They aren’t there. John never thought the day would come that he’d actually  _long_ to see a human head staring back at him next to his cans of beer—or a few severed thumbs in the crisper. Apparently, that’s the frame of mind he’s in at the moment.

Out of habit, he reaches into the cupboard and pulls out two mugs for tea. When he notices what he’s doing, he freezes and stares at the second one.

John had made Sherlock tea every single morning for over a year. Sherlock had never once thanked him for it. John had kept doing it anyway.

The kettle begins to sing and John thrusts the second mug back into the cupboard. He walks to the kettle, pulls it off the stove, and pours out tea for one.

When he leaves the flat, he is amazed to see that the dog from last night is still on the doorstep. It’s lying asleep on its stomach, paws crossed beneath its chin. When it hears John walk out, its eyelids fly open and it stands up, tail wagging with enthusiasm.

“You’re still here?!”  John asks incredulously, though he can feel his face light up. The dog seems friendly, so John stoops down on his knees to pet it. It hops up onto its hind legs and presses its paws into John’s lap. John brings both hands up to scratch behind its ears, and it pants happily. Up-close and in the daylight, John can see that it’s female, probably around a year old.

“Hello, you pretty, pretty girl,” John says. “So nice to meet you. What’s your name, Love?” He moves his fingers around to feel for a collar or ID tags, but her neck is bare.

He stands up, dusts off the knees of his trousers, and steps into Speedy’s to ask the manager if he knows whose dog she is. The manager tells John he’d thought she belonged to him. John doesn’t ask why he thinks he’d leave her out on the front step for the entire night. People had stopped asking questions about the strange things happening at Baker Street a long time ago. And she surely didn't belong to Mrs. Hudson—she would have informed him if that were the case. 

John walks out and back over to the dog, reaching down again to scratch the back of her neck. Her eyes squint gleefully and her tongue hangs out. “Yeah, you’re adorable,” he chuckles. “But I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get to work.” She opens her eyes and begins to whimper.

He wonders if she’s had anything to eat recently. She watches like a hawk as he reaches into his lunch bag and pulls out of a piece of the sandwich he'd made. He bends over and offers the piece of food to her, which she gratefully accepts.

“There you are, Love. Glad you like it. Though I can’t blame you. I do make a fantastic sandwich.” He smiles and ruffles the hair on her head. She whimpers again and takes a half step closer.

John raises an eyebrow at her and laughs. “Oh, right,” he says. “You want more, yeah?” He reaches back into his lunch bag. “Well, go ahead, then. I doubt I’m gonna eat it. Guess we shouldn’t let it go to waste.” He pulls out the rest of the sandwich and feeds it to her. She scarfs it down in two or three bites.

“Nice to have the food I make actually be appreciated,” he says, patting her again. “But I’ve gotta go, or else I’m going to be late.” He tilts his head down toward her and smiles. “Bye for now, Girl. Hopefully someone is coming back for you.”

He scratches behind her ear one more time before standing up and hailing a cab.

 

* * *

 

John had returned to work two days ago. Since then, it had been the same story each time he had walked through the clinic doors. Everyone there treats him like he’s delicate, as though a single word or look is going to cause him to shatter into a million pieces. Rooms suddenly fall hushed when he enters; people avert their eyes and pretend they haven’t been talking about him. He struggles to put on his most convincing smile and bids them all good morning anyway.

Silence becomes impossible, though, when John is stuck in a room with a patient. And they all seem to think they know what he is going through. Really, they only know the story reported in the gossip columns. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to discuss it.

53 year-old female, acute bronchitis. “I’m sorry for your loss, Doc. I lost  _my_ husband last year. I know how you feel.”

_“We weren’t—”_

41 year-old male, Type II diabetes. “Hey, I heard about your man, and I’m really sorry.”

_“He wasn’t my—”_

26 year-old female, wrist fracture. “So, does this mean you’re single now, Dr. Watson?”

_“That’s really not an appropriate topic for discussion between a doctor and a patient.”_

People, of course, had always been interested in the nature of John and Sherlock’s relationship. But ever since Sherlock had died, interest in that particular area seemed to have grown. It adds drama to the entire sob story, John supposes. Romance. It helps sell papers. Even if that romance didn’t exactly exist.

It’s pointless to argue about it now, he thinks. He’s just too exhausted to care. John Watson will be whatever they want John Watson to be, as long as they know the truth about Sherlock Holmes. That he wasn’t a fake. That he was just as amazing and wonderful as he appeared to be. That he could tell someone their own life story by the brand of eyeliner they wore; where they had dined last Tuesday by a scuff mark on their shoe; their military history based on a haircut.

As long as they know all that, they can believe anything else they want to.

Just before five o’clock, grey clouds fill the sky, and rain begins to pour down from them. The cab drops John off at Baker Street at approximately half past five.

The dog is still there, and John is slightly surprised at the feeling of comfort and relief he is filled with when he sees her. She’s shivering and huddled beneath the awning, trying to stay out of the rain. She hears John approaching and she looks up at him, her ears flattened timidly against her head. Her tail tentatively begins to thump against the ground as rain continues to splatter onto her.

“Hey, you,” John says. The dog’s fur is completely soaked, but her tail thumps harder at the sound of his voice.

John peeks at her from beneath his umbrella as she begins to whine. Exhaling a sigh, he walks to the door, turning the key before spinning back around to face her. He kneels down and softly takes her head into one hand, looking down into her dark, sad eyes.

She stares back at him without apprehension. 

“So,” John says to her. “It seems as though you were left behind by somebody you loved.” He purses his lips together as the dog leans in and nuzzles her face against his chin.

“It’s okay," he whispers. “I was left behind, too.”

Carefully, he scoops her into one arm, carrying her beneath his umbrella. “Atta girl,” he murmurs soothingly. Complacently, she lies her head on his chest, thankful to be out of the rain. John lifts himself up and they walk through the front door together, two sad and lonely creatures, as it continues to pour over Baker Street.   


	3. Since Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But right now, as Sherlock sits before him, his porcelain skin seems to radiate among the shadows, and John feels powerless against how exquisitely beautiful he is._
> 
> _Really, there’s no harm in looking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Please note the time skip. This chapter goes back to a few months after John and Sherlock meet. Don't worry, we'll be back in the present for the next chapter!

_Baker Street, July 2010. Approximately 18 months prior._

Both John and Sherlock are unaware of how much time had passed since sunset. Earlier in the afternoon, the curtains of 221B had been drawn to let in the natural sunlight of the long summer day—but now, other than the dim glow of their laptops, the flat had grown completely dark.

Like most evenings since they had moved into Baker Street together, the two men are seated comfortably in front of the unlit fireplace, enjoying the simultaneous companionship and solitude offered by one another’s presence. All is silent but the tapping of their keyboards and the occasional disapproving “ _tch_ ” Sherlock emits whenever he reads something _tiresome._

Every time this happens, John throws an irritated glance in Sherlock’s direction.

He pretends that these glances aren’t simply an excuse to lay eyes on Sherlock with veiled admiration.

It is, of course, not something John would actually admit to. His apparent attraction to Sherlock is something he normally forces himself to ignore, keeping it buried deep in the back of his mind. The whole thing is, after all, problematic at best.

It isn’t that John is ashamed—frankly, it’s undeniable that Sherlock is quite aesthetically pleasing. John, of course, has never been one to downplay aesthetic value. But he knows that Sherlock could never reciprocate feelings toward him in such a manner; and even if he could, it would surely complicate their lives. 

So John will never allow himself to become too carried away.

But right now, as Sherlock sits before him, his porcelain skin seems to radiate among the shadows, and John feels powerless against how exquisitely beautiful he is.

Really, there’s no harm in looking.

And though John had recently discovered that his own lifestyle is incompatible with long term relationships, he hadn’t given up on dating entirely. Actually, he had recently begun seeing a woman he’d met at the bakery. Tori, was it? Tami? Tara?

Things with her seemed promising.

In the quiet atmosphere of the sitting room, John eventually clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Hey, Sherlock,” he says. “I wanted to discuss something with you.”

Sherlock hums in mild interest, but remains immersed in his current task.

“I know this may seem a bit out of the blue, but I was thinking that perhaps we could redecorate the flat a bit.”

Sherlock continues not looking up, but the bridge of his nose crinkles as he frowns with coinciding disgust and skepticism. “Why on Earth would we do that?”

“Well,” John responds, shifting in his seat. “It’s a bit… dreary in here, don’t you think? We ought to lighten the mood a bit. Add a few splashes of colour.”

Sherlock’s eyes finally flicker up at John, and he squints momentarily, attempting to infer what has caused this temporary bout of insanity. Almost instantly, an expression of realisation settles on his face, and consequently, one of distaste.

“Oh. You’ve GOT to be kidding, John.”

John slowly blinks back at him. “Um… kidding about… what?”

“I see what’s happening here. You’ve been spending more time with that woman, Tamara—”

“It’s  _Tiana,_ Sherlock.” (Was it, though?)

“My point is—I imagine that Tabitha has recently allowed you to have intercourse with her, and shortly thereafter made an offhand remark about how ‘dark and grim’ the flat is. Deep down, you agreed with her, and have thereby assigned a disproportionate amount of significance to her statement. You believe that, by remedying this issue, the probability of being granted additional sex will increase.”

“That’s _not—_ ” John clears his throat. “I just...wouldn't mind the place looking a bit more presentable. We've got no real reason to live like slobs, you know.”

“Mm, and I’ve got no real reason to cater to the maladjusted tastes of your sexual conquests," Sherlock idly replies.

John presses his lips together, his chin twitching. “So what if it IS part of some plan to impress the woman I’m seeing? You're my _friend_ , Sherlock. Friends occasionally help each other out with these types of things."

"Do they?” Sherlock looks back up at John and grins impishly. “If I'd known that were a requirement, I certainly would have put in more thought before applying for the role.”

" _Sherlock_." John makes his best attempt to sound irritated, but his voice crackles with amusement. "Look, I’m not asking for much. Maybe just...a couple of paintings. Perhaps some floral arrangements or hanging plants. Maybe a brightly-patterned area rug.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard that John is truly amazed they don’t detach themselves from their sockets.

“Or if you wanted to go all out, we could even upgrade the furniture a bit.” John taps the faded velvet armrest of his armchair. “Toss _this_ rickety old thing out and get something a little more comfortable.”

And suddenly, Sherlock's expression becomes solemn. "No,” he says. “The armchair stays.”

John throws his head back slightly and laughs. “Really, Sherlock? You're absolutely okay with chemical spills on the rug and bullet holes in the wall, but you draw the line at an uncomfortable piece of antique furniture that does little more than hold my arse up?"

“John.”  Sherlock stares at John with an unexpected intensity.

John stares back blankly.

“That—” Sherlock gestures with a tilt of his chin—“is _your_ armchair.”

John taps his fingers on the armrest. “It's technically _your_ armchair, since you owned it before I moved in, but I—”

"No, John. It’s _yours,”_ Sherlock insists. “The first day you came to look at the flat, you settled into it almost immediately. It has since become a place where you spend a significant amount of time; henceforth, as with you, it very much belongs here.”

John doesn’t break eye contact between the two of them. “Wait. So are you actually ATTACHED to this old thing?”

“I don’t become _attached,_ ” Sherlock protests.

“Then you won't mind if I get rid of it.”

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “I suppose I shall have to spell it out for you, John,” he says, shutting his laptop. “That armchair has become somewhat symbolic of your presence in 221B. I’ve grown quite accustomed to having it exactly where I need it to be, just as I’ve grown accustomed to having you in it. And it gives me great comfort to know that, should I ever require your assistance, I know exactly where to find you _._ ”

“Sherlock, erm—" John’s voice cracks. “Half the time I’m gone, you don’t even notice. I mean, you weren’t aware when I traveled to New Zealand for nearly two weeks.”

“Of course I was aware, John,” Sherlock responds. “I’m the most observant man in London. Don’t mistake my Mind Palace techniques for a form of selective blindness. I may temporarily lose touch with the outside world or momentarily forget things, but I _do_ notice when you’re not here.”

John finds himself somewhat dumbfounded by this confession. “Sherlock Holmes,” he exhales in disbelief. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were being awfully sentimental.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes once more. "It’s not _sentiment,_ John,” he retorts. “I simply require consistency in my surroundings to achieve certain levels of mental clarity. Your presence just happens to be a crucial factor in that consistency.”

John’s lips quirk upwards as he tries not to grin. "I believe that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flicks his hand toward John dismissively. “Don’t flatter yourself, John. I _did_ just compare your significance to a piece of furniture, after all.”

“Hm, yeah." John chuckles. "A piece of furniture that you can’t seem to live without.”

Sherlock actually begins to laugh, and as he does, the gaze he holds with John feels significantly more meaningful.

Suddenly, though, the implications seem to register in his mind, and he tears his eyes away.

“Yes, well.” Sherlock lowers his head and reopens his laptop. “Deduce from that what you will. The armchair remains here.”

For John, the potent exhilaration stemming from this conversation—and from Sherlock, self-proclaimed sociopath, admitting to being  _attached_ to him _—_ comes as somewhat of a surprise.

“Alright,” John agrees. “We'll just go with potted plants, then."

“Fine."

John raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Why not? They will inevitably die out within eight weeks, which is a pattern you appear to be quite fond of, judging by the history of your romantic relationships.”

John huffs a disgruntled breath through his nose as he runs the palm of his hand over his face. “Shut up, Sherlock."

“Oh, don’t worry, John. It’s a good thing,” Sherlock responds casually. “You're far more useful to me when you aren’t otherwise attached.”

John knows he probably shouldn’t allow such an enormous feeling of warmth to swell within his chest, especially toward such a rude, ridiculous man. But he can’t seem to help it.

He also knows that, even in the dark room, he shouldn’t allow his eyes to settle on Sherlock with such fondness—or for quite so long. But he can’t seem to help that, either.


	4. The One Who Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She gazes over at him attentively, eyes wide, and John somehow senses that she understands exactly what he is saying._
> 
> _“Hey, you’re a pretty good listener, you know that? Perhaps I ought to fire my therapist and hire you instead.” He leans in and scratches the back of her ear. “Would you consider accepting payment in the form of more ear scratches? Or belly rubs, perhaps?”_

As John makes his way up the stairwell to Flat B, the dog shivers slightly, but remains docile as he murmurs tiny reassurances at her. The instant the two of them enter the flat, however, she wriggles impatiently in his arms, causing his umbrella to fly outwards, splattering the floor with water.

“Hey. Hush now. It’s okay.” John struggles to keep her in his grasp, but she excitedly flops down onto the ground, landing square on her feet. Both amused and slightly concerned, he watches as she scurries toward the two armchairs facing one another at the fireplace. At first, she glances back and forth between them, and then exploratorily leans her nose in to sniff John’s armchair. Then, she steps backwards, spins around, and shuffles herself over to the other armchair. Sherlock’s armchair.

She buries her light brown face into the material, breathing in short, tiny sniffs. And apparently, she likes the scent, because she promptly leaps into the chair, curls up, and rests her small head onto her furry white paws.

“Well.” John lifts the right corner of his lips into a smile, trying to ignore the clenching feeling in the centre of his chest. “That didn’t take long. Apparently, there isn’t a mortal soul on Earth who can resist the charm of Sherlock Holmes.”

After picking up his umbrella and placing it against the wall, he walks to Sherlock’s chair and wraps his arms around her. “Sorry, Love,” he says, lifting her up. “But we’d better get you dried off. Don’t want you ruining the ridiculous posh leather.”

He carries her into the bathroom, pulls a towel from the cupboard, and wraps her in it. “There you are. We’ll get you all dry and warm and then see if we can’t make you a bite to eat.”  

It occurs to John that perhaps he ought to eat as well.

His inspection of the contents of his refrigerator, however, serves as a bleak reminder of how barren it has become. Nothing remains other than a few cans of beer, a head of lettuce, and a small box of baking soda. He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment as he briefly reprimands himself for not taking better care of his own health.

And though he _is_ a doctor, his tendency to keep the refrigerator well-stocked had admittedly been as much for Sherlock’s benefit as his own. When he had lived alone, he had often forgone a well-balanced diet for food that was plain and simple. But having someone to share meals with day after day had always made the effort worth it, and besides— he knew bloody well that if he hadn’t practically forced Sherlock to eat, he very rarely would have.

Regrettably, his unwavering devotion to ensuring Sherlock's well-being all seemed somewhat pointless now.

“Guess we’re getting takeout, then.” John shuts the refrigerator door and is answered with a loud rustling noise from the behind him. He whips his head around to find what is causing the sound.

The dog has climbed on top of the dining room table and is already halfway through devouring the bag of blueberry scones Mrs. Hudson had baked for him.

“No!” he shouts. “Get down from there, you sneaky little—!” But as he darts over to stop her, she quickly hops down, carrying the entire bag of scones with her, and hides with it underneath the sofa.

“Oh, now you’re just playing dirty.” John crouches down onto his hands and knees to peek beneath the sofa.

She stares back, expressionless, as she unabashedly licks her lips.

John shakes his head at her scornfully. “Those weren’t for you.” He reaches back underneath the sofa to pull away the bag, and then takes her back into his arms.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to need some manners if you’re going to be hanging around here,” he warns. And as he says this, he begins to wonder exactly why he assumes that she actually _will_ be hanging around. After all, he doesn’t know the first thing about this little dog—where she came from, how she behaves, or even what her name is. Furthermore, he’s set to move out of Baker Street and into a new apartment by the end of next week.

He isn’t even completely sure why he felt so compelled to bring her into the flat in the first place. Obviously, he hadn’t wanted her to be out in the rain alone and cold, but inexplicably, it had felt as though she was already _his_ to care for.

Perhaps it had something to do with the flat being so achingly empty, so quiet, so vacant since Sherlock had left. Perhaps he needed to fill that space. Perhaps seeing her helpless on the doorstep had triggered his sympathetic, caretaking nature.

Perhaps losing Sherlock had been more than just losing his best friend, his companion—he’d also lost an enormous source of purpose and contentment in his life.

Perhaps he needed something to look forward to again.

He smiles down at her sadly. Her light brown fur is fuzzy and only a few millimetres long; her ears frame the sides of her brown face; her muzzle long and white. Her charcoal eyes are curious, yet trusting.

“I’m going to help you,” he says, pressing his chin into the top of her head. “I promise. We’ll start by getting you some real dog food tomorrow, and then we’ll search for your owner. And if we don’t have any luck, we’ll…I’ll... figure something else out.”

He doesn’t know why he feels so prepared to keep his word.

In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds mysteriously like Sherlock’s begins nagging at him. “Don’t get attached, John. Sentimental attachments will inevitably lead to heartbreak."

John shakes the thoughts from his head. “Piss off,” he responds internally.

 

* * *

 

That evening, John orders Greek takeout with an extra side of meat for his new guest, and settles down in front of the telly with a glass of whisky. The dog perches herself on the floor, watching television alongside him. She doesn’t take her eyes off it as he flips through a long stream of boring channels.

He can’t really seem to find anything to watch. It all just reminds him of Sherlock, really. The times he would lie out on the sofa, complaining about what John was watching, but would remain in John's company nonetheless. Because regardless of Sherlock's ever-apparent irritation towards John's "pedestrian" tastes and predictable habits, nothing had ever seemed powerful enough to keep the two of them apart for very long.

John finally settles on some home shopping network. The dog immediately begins to whine at him.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Sorry, Girl,” he says. “Got no idea what type of programs you like.” He changes the channel again, stopping on some action movie dubbed in Italian.

“Better?”

She whines again.

“Awfully picky, aren’t you?” John ultimately decides to give up, pointing the remote control at the television and shutting it off. The dog turns around to stare up at John and kneads her paws back and forth on the ground.

She eyes the space next to him on the sofa.

“No,” John says, with as much firmness as he can possibly muster.

She trots closer, tail wagging, and sets her front paws on his legs, imploring him to let her up beside him.

“No,” John reiterates. “I am _not_ going to allow you to be on the sofa.”

With no loss of enthusiasm, she lifts one ear, tilts her head, and plops back onto all four paws. Then she turns around, tenaciously bouncing over to Sherlock’s chair before leaping into it and making herself completely comfortable.

John chuckles.“Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve only got myself to blame for that," he says dryly. "Ought to have been more specific.” He gets up from the couch and settles down into his own chair to face her.

He stares blankly at the armchair before him, absentmindedly contemplating the smooth, dark green leather.

“That’s... _his_ chair,” he says, gesturing toward it with his glass.

She perks her ears.

"You know. The one who left.” He takes another drink, the whisky burning the back of his throat. “Sherlock Holmes,” he utters dramatically, raising his glass back into the air. “The world's only consulting detective.”

She blinks at John.

“He spent most of his time there. Thinking. Complaining. Coming up with numerous mind-boggling plans to wreak havoc on the flat. Or to catch a criminal mastermind. Sometimes one or the other. Often both."

"Some days, he would get so irritated with boredom that he would take out his revolver and—" John pretends to shoot the wall with his whisky glass. “Pow!” The dog jumps the slightest bit, startled by the sound he'd made.  “...shoot holes in the wall. Drove Mrs. Hudson mad. Drove me mad, too,” he adds. “Lots of things he did drove me mad. He was awfully good at that.”

He continues, smiling grimly. “He was brilliant, though. The most brilliant person I’ve ever met. I was lucky to call him my best friend.”

Her tail begins to thump against the chair.

“But yeah, he won’t be driving me mad anymore, I suppose. Don’t really need to get into the details, do I? Let’s just say that he’s a massive genius who did something massively stupid.”

She gazes over at him attentively, eyes wide, and John somehow senses that she understands exactly what he is saying.

“Hey, you’re a pretty good listener, you know that? Perhaps I ought to fire my therapist and hire you instead.” He leans in and scratches the back of her ear. “Would you consider accepting payment in the form of more ear scratches? Or belly rubs, perhaps?”

As he continues petting her, she lets her eyes drift shut, and her breathing becomes more regular as she eventually falls asleep.

John leans back again, quietly regarding the chair in front of him once more.

A vivid memory of Sherlock flashes into his mind. He is seated with his laptop, wrapped in his silk robe. His ivory skin reflects the dim light of the sitting room; his dark hair cascades over his temples. He gazes up at John, eyes unwavering.

_"That armchair has become somewhat symbolic of your presence in 221B. And it gives me great comfort to know that, should I ever require your assistance, I know exactly where to find you.”_

The memory falls away as quickly as it had popped up, and John blinks harshly to get rid of burning sensation in the back of his eyes.

Just over a week ago, that very chair had been occupied. Yesterday, it hadn’t been. And for now, John supposes he'd rather have a friendly dog staring back at him than the empty chair of someone he’s deeply missing.

 


	5. Havoc in the Corridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John squints, his eyes bleary, and he frowns at the dog. “Christ," he groans. "Seriously? You’ve barely known me for one day and you’re already trying to kill me in my sleep?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your comments, kudos, and subscriptions, friends!
> 
> I know you might be wondering if and when the dog is going to get a name- she is going to have a name soon, and it's going to be a very special tribute to the memory of Sherlock. :)

John can't seem to recall the part where he had fallen asleep, but he definitely feels the part where he wakes up. His head is throbbing from too much liquor and with the renewed wave of sadness that inevitably approaches in the morning. He feels as though he’s suffocating.  
  
Literally, though. There's something covering his face. Something furry.  
  
He can’t breathe.  
  
He jerks his body upwards in a panic, desperately sucking oxygen into his lungs. And as he does, he feels a soft, hairy monster crumpling into his lap with a startled whimper.  
  
As his eyes adjust, and his heartbeat slows, he begins to come to his senses. It occurs to him that monsters don't actually exist, but small, stubborn dogs with fuzzy brown hair and floppy ears do. And there is currently one blinking up at him through a haze of sleepy confusion.  
  
John squints, his eyes bleary, and he frowns at the dog. “Christ," he groans. "Seriously? You’ve barely known me for one day and you’re already trying to kill me in my sleep?”  
  
The dog thumps her tail, and, still in John's lap, flops onto her back. She exuberantly swings her front legs into the air and begins pawing at John's chin. Apparently, she can't comprehend the audacity of John's decision to remove her from the cosy berth of his face.  
  
John scowls at her, lifting his knees upward in an attempt to nudge her from her current position. “And that’s why you are not allowed on the bed, you little deviant. Down. Now.”  
  
In lieu of moving off, she flips back onto her stomach, butting her head into John's chest so suddenly that his upper body collapses backward onto his pillow. Unflinching, she buries her face into his, sprawling herself out as much as she possibly can.  
  
John promptly acquires a mouthful of fur.  
  
“Oi!” he calls out in a muffled exclamation. This, however, only encourages her to lodge herself in even closer.  
  
The moment John can feel himself becoming slightly irritated, the dog pokes her cold muzzle into his forehead and begins to decorate it with kisses. She starts with his forehead, and before he can stop her, she's at his cheeks, and his chin, and back to the bridge of his nose- and he finds himself dissolving into laughter.  
  
“Stop!" he cries—most definitely, probably, not emitting an uncharacteristically high-pitched squealing noise.  
  
"Stop it! Damn you!" Wriggling his arms out, he picks her up and sets her on the floor. He narrows his eyes at her, forcing a glare.  
  
"I'll bet you think you can use your charm to get away with whatever you bloody well want,” he says. "Well, l hate to break it to you, but I've had loads of practice in dealing with that sort of behaviour. I am not going to fall for it!"

The dog rolls over onto her back once more, turning her belly up, just as her stomach makes a loud rumbling noise.  
  
“Oh, yeah-Hell, I’m going to need to go pick up some food for you.” John checks the time—it’s already eleven in the morning, and he’d wanted to get started much sooner. He scratches the back of his neck and yawns. Shuffling himself out of bed, he stands up and steadies himself as the pain pulsing through his head returns. “Ugh,” he moans. “Need paracetamol first. Then I'll introduce you to the landlady," he whispers to the dog, giving her a half-smile. “She doesn't know you're here yet, but there's no need to worry. She’s actually pretty great. Very kind and understanding, obviously. I mean, she's got the patience to put up with Sherlock's constant antics, so-"  
  
As John realises what he's just said, his words begin to trail off, and they are replaced by a deep, familiar pressure in his chest. His cheeks burn with shame and a wave of nausea hits him.

It's all just too new. And it had been completely unintentional, but for a fleeting moment- he had stopped thinking about it, and had slipped into a world where Sherlock never left. Where the detective still broods in his chair at 221B, smelling of honey lavender shampoo. Where John pours an extra cup of tea in the morning (black, with two cubes of sugar). Where he orders an extra serving of Pad Thai because, although Sherlock usually claims he won't eat, he always winds up stealing John's. Where the two of them still quarrel semi-daily over whose turn it is to buy the milk, and whether the dining room table is an appropriate surface for dissecting internal organs.    
  
Where John talks about Sherlock in the present tense.

But of course, reality had come back, stabbing John like tiny shards of broken glass.

And in reality, John is now the only one who will buy the milk. In reality, there will be no more spleens on the table, though this isn't the way John wanted to win that battle. 

In reality, Sherlock, with his scent of honey, lavender, tobacco, and wool, only exists in the past tense.

John still isn’t quite ready to accept reality. So for just a tiny bit longer, he thinks he might need to keep running.  

He makes his way to the medicine cupboard. He swallows two tablets of paracetamol to lessen the pulsating pain of his hangover. And as he does, he wishes, and wishes, and wishes, that he could make the looming, inevitable pain of reality go away, too.  

 

* * *

  
  
John walks down the stairwell to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, the dog trailing closely behind him. "Mrs. Hudson," he calls through the door. "I need to, erm, introduce you to someone.”  
  
Seconds later, Mrs. Hudson opens the door with a clear expression of curiosity. And just as she steps into the corridor, the dog leaps up on her hind legs and begins poking her tongue at Mrs. Hudson's fingertips. Mrs. Hudson shrieks and recoils her hand at the unexpected sensation, placing her palm over her chest.  
  
The dog falls back onto all four paws as John clears his throat. "Mrs. Hudson," he says, gesturing toward the dog. “This is- well, actually, I don’t know her name yet. But she’s-”  
  
“I nearly had a heart attack!” Mrs. Hudson interrupts, huffing with exasperation. But her face softens the moment she glances down at the dog perched near her feet. “Oh, it’s you!" She removes her hand from her chest and reaches down to scratch the top of the dog's head. “The little one who was sitting outside the flat yesterday!" The dog's mouth drops open in response to the attention, her tongue hanging out as she pants happily.  
  
Mrs. Hudson continues to dote on the dog for a moment before she looks up at John. “Does she... belong to someone you know?”  
  
“Not sure who she belongs to," John replies. “She was sitting outside the flat when I left for work yesterday. And amazingly, she was still there when I returned. It was raining, and cold, and I just couldn't let her stay out there. Gonna go around the neighbourhood today and see if I can find some information. Keeping an eye open for lost dog fliers, checking out some nearby parks, that sort of thing.”  
  
“Poor girl,” Mrs. Hudson tuts. “Well, I hope you figure something out." She straightens back up, creasing the folds of her apron. "There are too many abandoned dogs in London these days. I'll tell you what it is- It’s these people purchasing dogs as gifts- for Christmas, a birthday, an anniversary, what have you, without  realising what a commitment they’re actually getting themselves into!" She turns her lips downwards in a worrisome manner, deepening the lines at the corners of her mouth.  
  
The dog hops back up onto her hind legs and Mrs. Hudson carefully leans down again to scoop her into her arms. "Relieved that you aren't too heavy. I could pull a muscle lifting you."  
  
The dog responds to Mrs. Hudson by snuggling against her chin. "Oh, my, you’re a darling, aren’t you?” The dog nudges at her some more, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice seems to raise a full octave. “Yes you are, you're a darling, oh, yes, you absolutely are.”

Amongst the awkward cooing and kissing noises Mrs. Hudson is making, John lifts an eyebrow and speaks. “Mrs. H," he says. "I need to run out to the store. Would you mind watching her while I’m away? Don't want to leave her alone in the flat.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson doesn't glance up from the delightful bonding experience."Oh, I’d be happy to,” she replies. “Just this once, of course."  
  
“Of course,” John mumbles. “Thanks. I won’t be too long. Just going to, um, pick up a couple of things."

 

* * *

  
  
  
John decidedly does not pick up “a couple of things.” He returns to Baker Street hauling a rather large assortment of items: a few cans of food, numerous varieties of treats, some toys, a dog bed, a bowl, and a harness.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He calls out from the corridor. “I’m back, so if you just want to let the dog back out, I’ll carry all of these things up and we can-”  
  
Mrs. Hudson's door swings open, and the dog comes flying out with an excited yip, heaving herself directly into John's legs. John is caught off guard and stumbles backwards, everything unceremoniously tumbling out of his arms.  
  
"Oh, well, hello, there." He kneels down to pick up the items, but before he can touch anything, he's bombarded with more eager dog kisses.  
  
“Nice to see you, too," he murmurs. "And now that you've wreaked havoc in the corridor, I expect you to help me clean up this mess.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson stands at the doorway, hand on her hip. “Seems like someone may already be attached to you."  
  
John shakes his head in casual disagreement, attempting to collect everything from the floor. "She's just hungry, and she knows that I come bearing the gift of canine cuisine."  
  
Mrs. Hudson tilts her head and folds her arms across her chest, peering at the items on the floor. "Is there anything at the pet store you DIDN’T buy?”  
  
John presses his lips together into a thin line and hangs his head sheepishly. “Yeah, erm...it’s.... been awhile since I’ve, you know, had a dog around. I wasn’t really sure what to get, or how long she'd be here, so I just...”  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiles at him. "Right. Let me help you carry these things upstairs."  
  
John stands back up, holding a small tower of canned food. "No, it’s alright. Thanks, but I can get it all.”  
  
A can of food immediately topples out of his arms.  
  
John swears under his breath.  
  
Mrs. Hudson extends both of her hands out. "Hand them over, Dear."  
  
The two of them lug everything into the flat, heaving the items onto the dining room table. As they do, John is reminded of the state of the flat. It’s decidedly not a state that says  “I’m packing all my belongings and moving out within the next few days".  Before Mrs. Hudson can mention anything, he clears his throat to offer an explanation. “I was, er, planning on starting to pack things up this afternoon,” he says. “After I take her around for a bit.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiles at him, unable to hide a tinge of sadness. “There's no hurry. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.” She gestures her head toward the dog, who is impatiently licking her lips and eyeing the dog food. "And that goes for the both of you."

John’s mouth turns up slightly into a small smile. He tries to envision what it would be like to stay at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson and the dog. But all he can think of is what it would be like to have that with _Sherlock_. Sherlock, training the dog to chase criminals down London alley roads. Sherlock, reaching underneath the table, sneaking scraps of food, even after John yells at him to stop. Sherlock, asleep on the sofa at three in the morning, book open on the floor, dog sprawled out over his chest.

 _I can’t. Not without him._ It takes a few seconds for John to realise that he’d actually said it out loud.

“I know,” Mrs. Hudson responds, nodding slowly, without emotion. “I know.”

John silently nods back at her, and she turns to leave. 

It’s been nine days. Nine days since Sherlock left. Shouldn’t John be crying? Today, he hasn’t cried. Instead, he’s gone out shopping for harnesses and giggled over a dog. Is this a thing one does when mourning over loved ones?

John knows nothing anymore. He tries to think of what Sherlock would have done if he were here.

He’d have taken one look at the dog and immediately known her entire story. He’d have sought out the owners and returned her to them, but only if he knew they’d be good to her. And if he’d had any doubt in his mind, he’d have done something else. And he'd probably think of some way to make them pay for abandoning her—even if it were just in the form of a visceral deduction.

Because Sherlock, as much as he had always claimed to be a sociopath, rarely failed to do the right thing. If people had sometimes questioned his motives, it was only because they hadn't understood things the way Sherlock had understood them. And though John had often understood him more than most, there had been times he'd questioned him as well. Perhaps, John thinks, if he'd had the ability to understand him all the time, Sherlock would still be here. 

John clenches his eyes shut, the wave of nausea returning. He lets it settle before reaching for the leash and harness. “Let’s do this, then,” he says to the dog. “Because it’s what _he_ would have done.”

The dog growls at him impatiently and flops onto the ground.

“Oh, right, right.” John looks at the dining room table, drops the harness, and goes off to fumble around for the can opener. “After you eat your fancy lunch, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

John dives into his mission headfirst. Searching for posters on bulletin boards, visiting dog parks, chatting with the locals. Hoping to gain some sort of clue— anything that might indicate someone who is looking for a dog. 

He carries on, in a neighbourhood that belongs to London, but was once a large component in the life John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. He carries on as though he isn’t missing half of the equation.

He forces himself to think about the task at hand, on what he's trying to accomplish. So at a flickering pub sign, he doesn’t think about the first time Sherlock had tried Jaegermeister (which also happened to be the last). At the turn of a corner, he doesn’t think about the conversation they’d had over how many official languages there are in Zimbabwe (sixteen). At a crack in the pavement, he doesn’t think about Sherlock running before him, coat blowing in the wind. For every stranger they pass, he doesn’t think about what Sherlock would know about them that John wouldn’t. 

He doesn’t think about it, until the sun is setting, and he realises that he and the dog are lost. And when he looks at the nearest street sign, he freezes in his tracks.

“We’re in Brixton,” he exhales, bewildered. “How the hell did we end up all the way out here?”

He’d been to this area dozens of times, of course. It had once flooded him with fond memories.

But tonight, when the memories enter his mind, they grip onto him like a vice, and he cracks. 

_Crime scene. Cop cars, flashing lights. Police tape. Suitcase. Pink._

It had been their very first crime scene together. 

John blinks and blinks, hard, trying to hold his tears back, but they come pouring hotly down his cheeks. “Shit,” he chokes out, burying his face into his hands.

The dog whimpers and cautiously moves closer to him. Nuzzling her nose onto his leg, she lifts her paw and sets it on John’s knee.

John sniffles and wipes his face with the back of his hand before looking down at her. “Hey,” he says, his voice cracking. “That is really, incredibly sweet of you to try and comfort me.” He reaches down and pats her on the head. “But we’d better go back now. I shouldn’t be here." He tugs on her leash a bit to steer her the other direction. "I’m really sorry we haven’t been able to find what we're looking for, Girl." 

So the two of them leave Brixton as quickly as possible. But though John escapes it physically—that night, while drifting off to sleep, he can’t stop his mind from wandering back there.

 


	6. A Reason to Take the Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A grin flashes across Sherlock’s face so quickly that if John had not already been staring, he’d have missed it. “There’s need to thank me,” he says, and lifts his eyes to John’s once more. “You already knew what you were capable of. You simply needed a reason to take the risk.”_   
>  _“Yeah.” John shifts his gaze to Sherlock’s eyebrows, to his cheekbones, to his mouth. “Then I suppose I ought to thank you for giving me a reason.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooooo! Please note the time skip again! This is my tribute to "A Study in Pink," with a little bit of "What might have happened after John and Sherlock had dinner at the Chinese restaurant and then had to part ways after ALLLL THEY'D BEEN THROUGH?" 
> 
> Next chapter, we'll be back in the present, but for now, enjoy John's extremely vivid memories <3

* * *

 

_January 30th, 2010._

_Brixton- Lauriston Gardens._

To say that John has no clue what’s going on at the moment would be a massive understatement.

He’d only just met Sherlock Holmes yesterday. This afternoon, they’d looked at a flat on Baker Street together. And now, they’re at a crime scene, surrounded by flashing lights and police tape, and Sherlock had just introduced him as his colleague.

And although he'd been brought here by a man he'd known for less than a day, that man, at the moment, is all that is familiar to him. The brilliant, likely insane man he’d just agreed to live with. So, amidst the confusion, John keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock. The tall, mysterious hurricane of excitement, passion, and Belstaff, who could have stepped out of equal parts classic noir film and superhero comic book.

John has to remind himself not to stare.

“He's with me,” Sherlock says to the officer they’d just approached. John recognises the man from the paper: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Lestrade tells Sherlock that he can take two minutes with the body. Sherlock says he may need more.

How much time does Sherlock Holmes need? To look at a body and tell their story? Someone who isn’t even breathing? Sherlock had known John's story the instant they had met. 

John wonders if he's just another body to Sherlock. 

John puts on a pair of coveralls. Sherlock doesn’t. Only gloves.

Pompous _._

They examine the victim. Jennifer Wilson. Late 30s. Wearing all pink.

“What am I doing here?” John whispers to Sherlock.

“Helping me prove a point,” Sherlock responds.

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

“Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun? There’s a woman lying dead.”

John doesn’t know if he’s more shocked by the revelation that Sherlock finds this all fun, or by the fact that silently, deep down, he agrees.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” Sherlock prods.

John leans in on his cane to examine the body more closely.

Asphyxiation.

But Sherlock- Sherlock goes deeper still.

As he rattles off his deductions, he is positively glowing. Buzzing with excitement, vibrating with genius. It's as though he’s imparting a great story passed down through generations; though it’s a gospel he’s known for all of thirty seconds.

The victim is from Cardiff, visiting London. Unhappily married. Professional. Judging by the state of her coat.

"Fantastic," John says out loud.

Sherlock goes somewhere else to find a missing suitcase. He leaves John behind at the crime scene. 

Bastard.

John doesn’t know what to do, or even where he is. His leg hurts. He approaches Sally Donovan, one of the members of New Scotland Yard. 

“Where am I?” John asks.

“Brixton,” she replies coolly.

“Right,” John says. “Do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er, well,” he says, looking down at his cane. “My leg.”

“Try the main road,” she says, lifting the police tape for him.

“Thanks,” John replies awkwardly.

“But you’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

John turns back to face her. “I’m nobody. I just met him.”

“Okay,” she says. “Bit of advice, then. Stay away from him.”

“Why?”

Sally obviously hates Sherlock. John can’t really blame her. Earlier that evening, he’d worked out that she was in a sexual relationship with one of her colleagues, and he’d shamelessly informed the entire Yard.

John wonders if Sherlock had been able to read anything about _his_ sex life.

Or lack of a sex life. It had been months, after all.

He wonders how long it had been for Sherlock. Had it been with a woman? A man?

Is that too much for him to wonder?

John wonders if Sherlock can read his lovers the way he reads a corpse. Does the pattern of their trousers, or the way they part their hair, tell him whether they want to kiss him hard and desperate, or soft and tender? 

He wonders what Sherlock looks like when he’s being kissed. Does his hair cling to his skin, drenched with sweat? Does he emit small, eager sounds, or unrestrained moans? Does he nibble softly at their lips, teasing them until they are aching for more? 

Yeah, too much. Too much.

“He gets off on it,” Sally says, ripping John from his thoughts. “The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”

John makes his best effort to pull himself together, but he's lost his place in the conversation. “Why would he do that?” he asks.

“Because he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.”

John should probably listen to her. She’s known Sherlock for much longer than he has. 

John's head is screaming, “Get out while you still can.”

Everything else is screaming, "This is exactly what you've always wanted."

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” Sally calls out as he leaves.

John ignores her.

Minutes later, John ends up in a stranger's limousine.

It’s the best night of John’s entire life.

 

* * *

 

The proprietor of the limousine, as John learns later, is Sherlock’s brother who works for the British government.

John turns down his offer to be paid a substantial amount of money to secretly keep tabs on Sherlock.

He’s very loyal to Sherlock, very quickly, says his brother. Why is that, exactly? It’s not as though he’s… God, no. He’s definitely not.

John hits on the woman in the limo to prove a point to himself. She turns him down.

He meets Sherlock back at Baker Street, and just like that, they’re searching for a serial killer. They stake out at a local restaurant. The owner is a friend of Sherlock’s.

There’s a candle. John passively observes how gorgeous Sherlock is in the candle light.

John asks Sherlock if he's involved with anyone, or if he's unattached, like John is.

Sherlock responds that he is flattered by John's interest, but he's married to his work.

John gets flustered and assures Sherlock he had misunderstood his intentions.

Sherlock says that women aren't his area. He doesn't say the same about men.

They chase the serial killer through the streets of London.

Yeah. _Chase_. John had thought he’d never be able to chase anything again. But tonight, he does. Thanks to Sherlock. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done, and he’d invaded Afghanistan.

John learns that Sherlock is an addict.

John thinks he might have a new addiction, too.

Later, Sherlock sneaks off alone with a serial killer.

Sherlock almost dies. 

John finds him.

John saves his life.

John shoots a man dead for a person he’d met less than two days prior.

John may have gotten himself in a bit deep. 

 

* * *

 

By a quarter past two in the morning, John has learned quite a bit about Sherlock Holmes. He’s learned that Sherlock Holmes is an idiot who will risk his life to prove his cleverness. He’s learned that Sherlock Holmes uses nicotine patches to help himself think. He’s learned that, though he doesn’t eat while on a case, Sherlock Holmes has quite the appetite for Pad Thai and rice wine once a case had been solved. He’s learned that while Sherlock Holmes is standing on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, slightly intoxicated, he is just as much of an arse as he is sober.

He’s learned that Sherlock Holmes has no shame in lying about a fortune cookie.

_"You will be rescued by a man who has an abundance of courage; making up for all that he lacks in stature.”_

John throws a dirty look at Sherlock and bursts out laughing. “Piss off,” he says, reaching out for the tiny slip of paper in Sherlock’s hand. “What does it  _actually_  say?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Sherlock replies calmly. “I take the predictions of the mass-produced, oddly shaped sugar cookie very seriously.”

John exhales affably and rolls his eyes at Sherlock. Leaning forward, he swipes at Sherlock’s hand in another attempt to grab the paper. “Prove it,” he demands.

Sherlock raises it upwards so that it’s barely out of John’s reach, his calm expression forming into a mischievous grin. He seems to overestimate his own balance, however, and his body suddenly begins to tilt backward.

John, whose arms are already extended outwards, reflexively wraps them around Sherlock’s waist to keep him from falling. “Whoa, there,” he laughs, pulling Sherlock inwards to face him. “Careful, you tipsy bastard.”

Sherlock steadies his balance, warily eyeing John for a moment. He presses his lips together, expression forming into a glare. “I’m not _tipsy_ ,” he insists.

John untangles his arms from Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. “Well, then,” he says. “You have terrible equilibrium.”

Sherlock crinkles the bridge of his nose, frowning petulantly. “Well, YOU have terrible...” he trails off into an incoherent grumble. “You have terrible... taste...in jumpers... and you’re… you’re short.” He huffs.

“I’m _average_ ,” John says, peering back at him defiantly.

Sherlock’s frown fades. “You’re anything but, John.”

John smiles. In his veins, he can feel his blood pulsing, pleasantly warm and thick from all the rice wine he’d had. A biting Winter breeze gusts past, and John watches as it tousles Sherlock’s hair, fighting the sudden urge to run his fingers through it to smooth it down.

Sherlock gazes back at him, silently, unblinking, with eyes a colour John can’t define.

Another breeze passes, and Sherlock tears his eyes away. He buries his chin beneath his scarf and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I didn’t, erm, properly thank you, John,” he says. His feet shuffle uncomfortably as he stares at the ground. “For helping out with… for… the thing you did earlier. With the cabbie, and the, er, brilliant marksmanship.”

John smiles at him warmly. “Hey, don’t mention it. Thanks for helping me out with the old, er...” John pats the top of his right leg. “Yeah, thanks for helping me, you know, walk again.”

A grin flashes across Sherlock’s face so quickly that if John had not already been staring, he’d have missed it. “There’s need to thank me,” he says, and lifts his eyes to John’s once more. “You already knew what you were capable of. You simply needed a reason to take the risk.”

“Yeah.” John shifts his gaze to Sherlock’s eyebrows, to his cheekbones, to his mouth. “Then I suppose I ought to thank you for giving me a reason.”

Sherlock blinks and clears his throat, pulling his right hand from his pocket and nervously running his hand through his hair. “You didn’t... tell me what yours says,” he mutters.

John frowns in confusion. “My what?”

Sherlock extends his chin outwards, toward the small white slip of paper peeking out of John’s front coat pocket. It’s from the fortune cookie he’d gotten at the restaurant.

“Oh.” John looks down and carefully pulls the paper out, handing it over to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes it from him, skeptically raising an eyebrow, and unfolds it. “There is nothing new under the sun,” he reads in his smooth, baritone voice. “It has all been done before.” He glances over the slip of paper back at John.

John chuckles. “Can’t say I agree,” he says. “I’ve never experienced _anything_ like tonight.”

Sherlock lowers the paper, gazing back at him earnestly, and John can feel gravity between the two of them shift. “Neither have I,” he says, his voice nearly inaudible.

John swallows thickly, his pulse is pumping in his ears. His stomach is twisting and his lower body is unbearably warm.

“John.” Sherlock says softly and deeply, the world dulling with the intensity of his gaze.

“Yeah?” John replies. 

“The night is still young, if you want it to be.”

The air between them crackles, and John’s heart skips a beat. His eyes settle on to Sherlock’s faintly parted lips.

And John wants.

He wants to pull Sherlock’s body into his and kiss him so fiercely that they both forget what it feels like to breathe. 

But as much as he wants to take Sherlock into their shared flat and spend the night together, there are a million definite reasons he should not—not now.

They’d only just met. They're both slightly inebriated. And as much as John _wants_ , he can’t let himself forget about what he  _needs_.

He needs Sherlock. He needs a friend. He needs a companion. He needs a home.

What he _doesn’t_ need is to screw it all up before it begins. To find himself back in a lonely bedsit where he hides his handgun in his top drawer to avoid temptation. Where he wakes up crying in the middle of the night.

What he doesn’t need is to pursue this untouchable, unattainable man who has already proclaimed to be married to his work.

“I really think I should get home,” John blurts out, and a look of rejection forms on Sherlock's face. “I'm sorry, I-" he swallows. "I’ll come by Monday evening with some of my things, yeah?”

Sherlock's eyes fall to the ground, and he presses his lips together into a thin line. “Alright," he says, quietly turning, and he walks up the steps to open the door. “I’ll see you then." He tilts his head backwards and gives a curt nod. "Goodnight, John."

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John replies, but his voice is muffled by the sound of the door shutting.

John closes his eyes and inhales the crisp air around him. He'd done the right thing. Hadn't he?

Surely, he had. And he knew that, tomorrow morning, Sherlock would be grateful for it. 

Tomorrow, things between him and Sherlock would be fine. They'd begin their new life together, full of adventure, full of thrills, solving crimes while living in a fantastic flat in central London.

And if John just happens to be attracted to his new flatmate, he’d learn to deal with it. John is good at keeping things like that at bay.

Exhaling, he opens his eyes and notices a small, folded up piece of paper lying on the doorstep. John smiles when he realises it’s Sherlock’s fortune cookie paper. It had likely fallen out of his pocket on his way in. He reaches down to pick it up, and he laughs as he reads what it says.

_You already know what you’re capable of. You simply need a reason to take the risk._

He folds the fortune up, puts it into his pocket, and hails a cab.


	7. From Your Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“John." Sarah looks him calmly in the eye. “Listen. I know how important he was. And of course you’re not good right now. Christ, it's only been a few days. But it won’t do you any good to just... leave your entire life behind. To try and run from him.” She squeezes John's hand. “At one point or another, he’s bound to catch up to you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I had originally planned for this chapter to be very dog-centric, but I just keep falling down the Johnlock UST rabbit hole. 
> 
> Also, from this chapter, you’ll be able to tell that I think Sarah is super cool and wish that she and John had a better friendship in the series!
> 
> The next chapter is also finished, and I’ll be posting it in a few hours. It'll have tons of puppy fluff, I promise. :)

_April 2010. Auckland, New Zealand._

"You miss him."

It’s not an accusation, but a declaration.

Sarah had been silent for the past hour. John had assumed she was sleeping. After having attended numerous panels for a doctor’s conference they had been attending with a friend of John’s, they’d both returned to their hotel room that evening exhausted.

“What? Who?" Faintly disconcerted, John lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading and shifts them to Sarah.

She repositions her body to face his and rests her head on her arms. “All this…” she says. “Just feels as though it isn't really _you_.”

Frowning, John closes his book. "Sorry, I… don't understand what you mean."

She gestures toward their surroundings to illustrate her point. “The conference. The four-hour long panels. The medical journals. The stuffy, arrogant doctors.”

“I suppose listening to someone speak about sputum collection for that amount of time is a bit much,” John confesses with a chuckle. “But I’m here to support my mate. And I’m a doctor, too, remember?”

“Yes, you are a doctor,” Sarah says. “And a brilliant one. But that's just one of many things you are."

“Sarah,” John says hesitantly, growing more concerned. “What are you getting at, exactly?"

"John,” Sarah says sensibly. “I do yoga on Sundays, read the Daily Telegraph though I absolutely hate it, and the highlight of my entire year was buying a top-loading washer and dryer for my flat. My idea of a wild night is drinking  _two_ glasses of wine before bed. My life—it’s all really very boring.”

John turns his own body to face hers and rests his head on his pillow. “That isn’t boring,” he replies. “It's normal.”

Sarah smiles at him. “But normal has never _really_ quite suited you, has it?”

John lets out a disheartened sigh. "If this is about all the cases—"

“Just consider twenty years from now,” she interrupts.

“What?”

“When you think about your life, five, ten, twenty years from now—What does it look like? Where are you? Who are you with?”

John stares back at her, his expression blank.

“I know it’s cliched, but there is actually some legitimacy to the question.”

John halfheartedly shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to imagine his world in the near and distant future. Unexpectedly, he smiles at the thought.

“Twenty years?" he says. “I’ve honestly got no clue. I mean, with all the dangerous situations Sherlock gets me into, it’s really anyone’s guess.”

With that, Sarah leans over, pressing a soft kiss to John’s forehead. “Whether or not you realise it,” she says, pulling herself away from him, “you’ve just answered the question.”

John opens his eyes and gazes back at her wordlessly.  

“No—it’s not like that. Sherlock and I... we aren’t involved... romantically.”

“I know,” Sarah reassures him. “But... romance is overrated, you know. Once you find a person who completes you, who you can see yourself spending your life with, no matter what the circumstances are, you really ought to hold on to that.”

“Sarah—" John says weakly, his face burning. But he's unable to utter a single word in his defence.

He tries to wrap his head around what Sarah is saying. He’d really never given much thought to what the future had in store for Sherlock and him—and why would he? He’d barely known him for four months. But the undeniable reality is that since meeting Sherlock, John’s life had become the most invigorating and fulfilling it had ever been.

And the idea of a life without Sherlock already seems out of the question.

Is it possible for him to have the best of both worlds? To have that life with Sherlock _and_ pursue long term relationships? Could John willingly continue to endanger himself—and possibly one day, a family—by dropping everything to be at Sherlock’s side?

Deep down, John knows the answer. And apparently, some part of him has already decided what he wants.

It’s a realisation he isn’t quite prepared to deal with.

"I know we haven’t been here long,” Sarah says. “But I can tell that you're unhappy being away. From the cases. From him. From _your_ normal. So why exactly are you wasting your time here? Go back to London and make all the time you do have count.”

“Sarah, I can’t just leave you out here in a foreign country all alone,” John argues. 

“Are you kidding? I’ll be fine. It’s only for a couple of days. And besides, I’ve met loads of other boring doctors here.”

John laughs, and then smiles at her sadly. “Call me when you’re back in London?”

”Of course,” Sarah says. “It’ll be good to talk again after thinking about all this a bit more.”

First thing the next morning, John leaves the hotel, goes to the airport, and catches an early flight back to London.

 

* * *

 

“John. Have you decided yet?”

“Hmm?” John replies. He shakes his head, attempting to pull himself back into the present.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and it's been eleven days since he’d watched Sherlock fall to his death.

“Have you decided? What you’re ordering for lunch?” Sarah is seated at a restaurant table across from him with a look of notable concern on her face. Next to John, a brunette woman who appears to be a waitress is peering at him expectantly.

John fumbles with his menu for a moment. “Just the, er, grilled salmon, thanks,” he says, and the waitress shoots him a sidelong glance before walking off.

Sarah raises an eyebrow at him. “I was afraid we’d lost you for a second there," she says lightheartedly.

“Yeah," John apologetically responds. “Sorry. Just can’t really seem to focus on anything lately."

Sarah regards him with a sympathetic smile. “You look like Hell," she says. "When was the last time you ate?”

“Oi,” John utters defensively. “Nice to see you, too, Sarah.”

"John Watson," Sarah says in a teasing but authoritative voice, echoing a sentiment John had shared himself with Sherlock countless times: “You’ve _got_ to fucking eat."

“Yeah. I know,” John acquiesces. “That's why I'm here, isn't it? Thanks for inviting me, by the way.” He looks down at the ground next to their table, where the dog is resting her head on his shoe and lightly snoring. “And thanks for letting me bring her."

"Of course," Sarah responds. "Though I have to admit, when you said you were bringing a friend to lunch, I wasn’t expecting them to have a tail and four legs."

"The last time a friend of mine came along with us to something,” John says, “you and I got kidnapped. So I figured this would be a safe bet."

“Definitely a memorable experience,” Sarah says. “Seriously, though, part of me hopes you can keep her. I love the thought of you with a dog."

"Well,” John says, “I'm moving into a new place next week, so I don't think I'll be able to make that happen."

“What?” Sarah sets her drink onto the table. “You're leaving Baker Street?”

“Yeah,” John replies. “I obviously can’t stay there now.”

“If you’re worried about the cost of living there alone, I know loads of people who’d love to be in a place like that. I can put someone in touch with you.”

“No, no.” John shakes his head slowly. “It’s just—it’s a bit difficult. Being there without—” He clears his throat, choking on his words, and forces a smile.

Sarah leans forward and reaches out a hand, taking ahold of John’s.

“I’ve, erm—I’ve already got a new place lined up,” John continues. “Out in Vauxhall."

“Oh.” Sarah purses her lips together, her eyes shifting upwards thoughtfully.  “So... you’re going to move out of a flat that you _love_.”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s in a fantastic location.”

“The new one isn't that far from—”

“With a landlady who adores you.”

“Mrs. Hudson will be—”

“So that you can further isolate yourself and be left to grieve completely alone?”

“...Erm, yeah." John responds flatly. "Yeah, that was the plan."

“Wow. Seems like a fantastic idea.”

"Sarah—"

“John." Sarah looks him calmly in the eye. “Listen. I _know_ how important he was. And of course you’re not good right now. Christ, it's only been a few days. But it won’t do you any good to just... leave your entire life behind. To try and run from him.” She squeezes John's hand. “At one point or another, he’s bound to catch up to you.”

The ache in John’s chest, a constant companion these days, grows more painful as he exhales a laboured sigh.

Sarah is right. Sarah, who is a good friend, always supportive, and someone who knows John well enough to call his bluff.

While they were dating, she had always seemed to accept John and Sherlock's relationship for what it was, even when John hadn't quite understood it himself. They'd officially split a few hours after John had returned from New Zealand, but even after that, Sarah had been someone he could consistently depend on.

John lowers his eyes and runs his fingers nervously over the corners of his napkin. “I'm fine. I am.”

“Who are you trying to convince, John?” Sarah asks. “Me, or yourself? Because I’m not sure either one buys it.”

“It’s—” John bites the inside of his bottom lip apprehensively. “It's just... I've been haunted by memories of him since it all happened.”

”What sorts of memories?" Sarah takes a sip of her water.

The pain in John’s chest dulls the slightest bit. "Good ones, mostly. But in some ways, that makes it worse.”

Sarah presses her lips together. "Hmm. I can understand that. But memories don't have to be a bad thing.”

“I suppose not,” John says.

“Do you think it would help for you to get some of those memories out into the open, rather than letting them fester in your head until you’re exhausted?”

“Maybe,” John responds hesitantly.

“Perhaps you could keep a journal?”

“Oh, god," he says. "You sound just like my therapist."

“Alright, alright. Then maybe you could share them with someone?”

“Yeah, er—you know me. Try to get me to open up about anything emotional, and, yeah. Deer in headlights.”

“True,” Sarah concedes. "But you know..." she says, lowering her eyes to the dog. "My grandmother has a German Shepherd named Trixie. After my grandfather passed away, she used to take Trixie out to this tree that she and my grandfather would often sit under. She'd stay there for hours sometimes, just sharing memories with her. She says it was actually very cathartic.”

John follows Sarah’s gaze and frowns. “What? Are you suggesting I try and relay memories of my dead best friend to a... dog?”

“I don't know what would work best for you," Sarah continues, "But I think it could be worth a try. Dogs are amazing creatures. They provide comfort and companionship. They love you unconditionally. It could be exactly what you need right now.”

The dog stirs at John’s feet, her eyes flickering open.

"As I explained to you earlier," John says, "She's not actually mine. I'm just looking after her."

Sarah grins and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't you think it's funny that she happened to show up when she did? Dogs are incredibly keen, you know. They seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to human emotions. Perhaps she showed up at your door because she was able to feel that you were in need.”

“Don’t know about all that,” John responds, absentmindedly tearing pieces of his napkin into shreds. “I can honestly say it’s been nice having the company, though. It’s keeping me the tiniest bit more sane than I think I would have been otherwise. But still. I don't think it's possible for me to talk about the memories. Not yet."

The dog emits a squeaky yawn and looks back at John with her trusting, charcoal-coloured eyes. For a moment, John wonders which stories he would tell her, if only he had the strength.

 

* * *

 

_April 2010. Baker Street._

Sherlock sits in his armchair, still as a corpse, fingers woven together beneath his chin.

Apparently, the commotion Mrs. Hudson had made over John's early return from New Zealand had failed to pull Sherlock from his Mind Palace. John gently sets his bags down in the sitting room, allowing his gaze to fall upon the man before him.

He looks almost prayerful.

For a moment, John considers not disturbing him, but his voice gains a mind of its own.

”Hey,” John says quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open. Disoriented, he takes in everything around him slowly and blearily, as though his surroundings were new.

The first thing he focuses on is John.

“John,” he says. His voice is dry and thick, inexplicably tying John’s stomach into knots.

"Sherlock,” John replies simply, and he is amazed at how much he'd missed that name on his tongue.

As they continue to lock eyes for several seconds, John can feel his throat becoming dry as well.

"I'm back,” John finally says.

“Back?” Sherlock frowns. “Back from where?”

“I’ve been in New Zealand for the past ten days, you idiot.”

”No.” Sherlock blinks in confusion. “You were here this morning. And the day before that,” he says. “You brought me tea.”

“That definitely wasn’t me.”

Sherlock stares blankly, exhales a puff of air through his nose, and returns to his state of meditation.

John stares.

Sherlock is prayerful. Silent.

“Well.” John clears his throat. “Long flight, so I'll be having a kip in my room if you need me."

Sherlock doesn’t move. "Why would I need you?" he asks nonchalantly.

“No reason.” John lowers his eyes to the ground.

Sherlock hums dismissively.

John stands in silence, not budging, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“You are thinking incredibly loudly,” Sherlock admonishes, his eyelids flying open again.

“Oh. Erm. Sorry.”

Sherlock frowns at him indignantly before closing his eyes once more.

Prayerful. Silent. Contemplative.

John sighs and bends over to pick up his luggage before walking up to his bedroom. And as he places one hand on the door handle, he hears Sherlock’s voice again, with much less exasperation than before.

“John.”

John pauses, but he doesn’t turn. “Yeah.”

“It’s nice to have you home.”

John slowly spins around to look down at Sherlock, only to find that he still hasn’t moved.

Sherlock could be insufferable at times. Hell, most of the time. But watching him when he is like this always has an effect on John that he can't really describe. And it usually causes him to forget why John was irritated with him in the first place.

Prayerful. Silent. Contemplative.

Splendid.

“Sherlock?" John's voice is hesitant. "Do you ever think about... twenty years?" He tries to convey a legitimate question, but stumbles over his words.

Sherlock reopens his eyes, peeking up curiously at John. "Pardon?"

"What I mean is—twenty years from now, where do you see yourself?"

“Oh my God, John. What sort of ridiculous drabble were they spewing at you in Nepal?"

"New Zealand, Sherlock," John exhales. "I was in New Zealand. Just... answer the question."

Sherlock sighs, but humours him with a simple response.

"I don't."

"You don't?"

"No," Sherlock replies, his expression neutral. "I don't think about the future, John. What's the use? Whether you and I continue to solve crimes for decades, or for only a few more months, who can say? It is largely beyond our control, so there is no reason to waste time contemplating it."

John presses his lips together. "You and I,” he echoes Sherlock's words with a whisper.

It's all John had needed to hear.

Sherlock continues to stare at him, perplexed.

John slowly spins around towards his bedroom door and opens it. "And thanks, by the way,” he calls down over his shoulder. “I'm happy to be back. It feels great to be returning back to my normal.”


	8. Brixton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John exhales shakily. "He saved my life. He saved more lives than I think anyone can count."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo John finds in this chapter is inspired by a photo manip I found online awhile ago. If you'd like to see that photo (watermarked), you can view it [here](https://postimg.cc/image/t2f5cxbe5/).

After finishing his lunch with Sarah, John and the dog return to Baker Street to begin the tedious packing process.

It’s something John isn’t looking forward to at all.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had agreed to pack most of Sherlock’s items, saving John some of the heartbreak. But John knows there’s no way he can avoid Sherlock’s things altogether, and it makes the entire task seem unbearable.

First, he treads into his bedroom, pausing at a pile of cardboard packing boxes that had been untouched for days, strewn across the floor. He eyes everything around him, trying to decide where to begin. Sighing heavily, he walks to his wardrobe, methodically removing several of his shirts and jumpers from their hangers before laying them in a pile on his bed.

Then, he picks up one of the boxes and heads downstairs to the sitting room. The dog follows him and leaps up into Sherlock's armchair. She observes John attentively as he wanders to the mantelpiece and begins to pack a few of his artifacts. First, he pulls out a wooden elephant he'd purchased while he was in India. He wraps it in tissue paper and sets it into the packing box.

As he does, he's slightly startled when the dog jumps up onto all four legs and emits a short, despondent whimper.

He turns his head to her. "What is it, Girl?" he says, watching her as she circles a few times before lying back down. He lifts an eyebrow at her as he pulls out an antique teapot he'd purchased in Afghanistan. He wraps it up, and as he places it into the box, she suddenly leaps off the armchair and darts to his feet, taking the cuff of John’s trousers into her teeth and yanking playfully.

John laughs nervously and reaches out to pull her off. “What on Earth has gotten into you?" he says. "This flat isn’t going to just pack itself, you know.”

She looks up at him sorrowfully, tucking her tail between her legs.

"Don't give me those eyes," John gently warns her.

He then pulls out a glass paperweight and places it into the box.

The dog softly growls at him.

“Hey.” John kneels down to pick her up from the ground and takes her into his arms. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to keep me from leaving Baker Street, too.” He kisses the top of her head. “I realise it isn’t exactly a happy scenario… but this is already quite difficult, so do you think you could give me a break?”

She whimpers again, and he sighs defeatedly. “No? Well, then I'm afraid I’m going to have to put you upstairs.” So he carries her up to his bedroom and sets her onto her dog bed.

"I'm sorry to leave you in here, Love, but it’s only for a bit. So... why don't you just...erm... take a nap. Or just.. I don't know. Do...dog things.” He picks up one of her toy bones from the floor and sets it next to her before returning to the sitting room.

It takes approximately an hour of slow, lifeless, unenthusiastic packing, but he finally fills a few boxes. When he walks back to his bedroom to check on the dog, she is still lying on her bed, gnawing steadily on her bone. 

As soon as John walks in, she pauses and slowly shifts her eyes up to him, and then immediately lowers her head in shame.

“Oh, no.” John squints at her suspiciously. “What did you do?"

She returns to chewing on her bone, keeping a watchful, nervous eye on John.  

John briefly surveys the room. “Nothing chewed up on the floor," he observes. "No puddles or carpet stains.  _Oh_.” He narrows his eyes at her. "You've  _got_  to be kidding me."

The speed and intensity of her chewing suddenly rises.

“Where  _are_ they?” John exhales in irritated amusement as he kneels to the ground, and she continues to gnaw more and more furiously. He peeks beneath his bed, and there, piled underneath a blanket, are six of his jumpers. 

“Oh my god,” John says. “Did you actually... _hide_ my jumpers from me?”

She finally stops chewing on her bone, her tail swiftly moving up and down in tiny thumps.

“Of course," John mumbles. "Of course I’ve found a dog who’s a genius arsehole and bloody hates my jumpers."

She hesitantly stands up and walks over to him, her tail wagging the tiniest bit more.

“I’d be angry with you, except that’s actually pretty damn impressive," he says, and reaches underneath the bed to pull them back out.

 

* * *

 

After packing his clothing, John decides to move on to the bookshelf he and Sherlock had shared. Thumbing through Sherlock's volumes of encyclopaedias and chemistry journals, he searches for books of his own.

As he pulls one out, an envelope pops from the shelf and drifts to the ground. John reaches down to pick it up. It's addressed to Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. He'd never seen it before. Overcome with curiosity, he opens it.

His heart skips a beat when he realises what it is.

It’s a photograph of him and Sherlock. It had been taken during the first day of a case they'd had in Dartmoor.

The memory of it, much like the others John has, is crystal clear.

He and Sherlock had been making rounds at a local inn, asking various locals about the legend of a monstrous “hound,” when a stranger—a short, slightly overweight man in his early thirties with dark-rimmed glasses—had approached them.

"Hey! You're Sherlock Holmes!” he’d said, his eyes alight with excitement and admiration. “And you're Doctor Watson!" The man had extended his hand outward to Sherlock, who had smugly ignored the gesture, shoving his own hands deeper into his coat pockets.

John, throwing Sherlock a chastising glare, had taken the man’s hand and shaken it. "Hello," he'd said. “Nice to meet you."

"I can't believe this. You guys have no idea how much—" he'd swallowed, as though trying to hold back his words. “I mean... I absolutely  _love_ your blog!"

"That's very nice of you to say," John had responded, nodding courteously.

"Oh, sorry, Doctor Watson,” the man had said. “Your blog is great, too, but I was actually referring to Mr. Holmes’ blog."

And at that, Sherlock's closed-off stance had instantly opened up. "Oh?" he'd said, with a sudden interest. "You've read _The Science of Deduction_?"

"All of it. Multiple times, actually. Your analysis of tobacco ash is incredible.”

John had pulled his hand slowly away from the man's grip, gaping in disbelief at him, and then at Sherlock.

"Did you hear that, John?" Sherlock had boasted, a ridiculously wide grin spreading across his face. “He likes  _my_ blog.”

"Yeah," John had replied, barely containing a laugh. "I definitely heard it."

“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective had said, finally extending his hand in greeting.

“Stanley Palmer,” the man had replied. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock had responded. John had watched him speechlessly, wondering where the hell this polite, completely out of character version of Sherlock had emerged from. Apparently, genius truly _does_ love an audience.

"Listen,” Stanley had said, reaching into a large bag hanging from his shoulder. “I’m actually running late for my flight, but I would love to snap a photo of you two before I go. Would you mind?"

"Alright," Sherlock had said, reaching out to John and pulling him into his side. “John, would you mind?” he'd asked, dropping his arm and smiling for the camera. 

“Errr... no. Not at all.” And with Sherlock’s sudden close proximity at the forefront of John’s mind, he’d wrapped his own arm around Sherlock’s shoulders without a second thought.

Sherlock had smelled warm, like honey, lavender, wool, tobacco and mint.

For a brief moment, as their photo was being taken, the two had stood there, side-by-side, their smiles rivaling the brightness of the sun.

"Thank you both  _so much,"_ Stanley had said after snapping the picture. "Really. You have no idea how grateful I am. And I’m glad you’re taking some time for just the two of you,” he’d added, grinning conspiratorially. "This place is absolutely perfect for a romantic getaway.”

"Oh," John had said, awkwardly pulling himself away from Sherlock. "We aren't here for a—"

“I’ve got to go,” Stanley had said, cutting John off. “But I’d love to send you two a copy of this photo.”

“Of course,” Sherlock had replied, politely unaffected. “You’ll find our mailing address on the blog.”

 

* * *

 

John doesn’t know how long he actually stares at the photograph for. As usual, he can’t seem to take his eyes off Sherlock. His bowed, genuine smile; his smooth, thick curls. His damned coat, with the collar. And his cheekbones. But beyond that—in this photo, John can't get over how immeasurably _happy_ Sherlock looks. It’s a side of him John had very rarely seen.

The dog starts to whine again, and John shakes himself out of his trance, hurriedly stuffing the photograph back into the envelope. And as he does, he discovers a piece of paper inside. It's a letter. John carefully unfolds it and begins to read it. 

_Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson,_

_I was in a rush when I bumped into you two in Dartmoor, so I wasn't able to say all I wanted to say._

_Mr. Holmes. You might or might not remember a young woman named Gemma King? Four years ago, she was taken by a gang of criminals, brutally assaulted, and left for dead. But because of you, she was found. And she lived._

_Two years ago, I married her. And last year, she gave birth to the most beautiful little girl in the entire universe, our daughter Chloe._

_Mr. Holmes, you have been blessed with a genuine gift, which you use to help others. And because of your gift, people like myself have found joy. In no uncertain terms, I would not have the two loves of my life around if it weren't for you._

_The world needs more people like the two of you. Your work has far reaching implications that affect more people than you may ever realise. There is nothing I could say to express my gratitude properly, but thank you, from the bottom of my heart._

_Wishing a lifetime of love and joy to you both,_

_Stanley, Gemma, and Chloe_

John slowly blinks. Unbidden, a tear falls from his face and stains the letter.

The dog hops up off the chair and walks over to him, perching herself at his feet.

“Hey,” John says, his voice cracking.

She paws at his leg. First the right, and then the left.

"What do you want? I’m trying to  _brood,_ here. Let me be.”

The dog paws at him again, more urgently, whimpering softly.

John rests his face in his hands as he quietly begins to cry.

"Sherlock was the best person I've ever known," he utters. "The best. In every sense of the word. And not everyone saw that side of him. He would never allow that to happen. But when I read something like this letter, it reminds me that there were also others who had an unwavering faith in him."

John exhales shakily. "He saved my life. He’s saved more lives than I think anyone can count."

Wiping the tears from his face, he carefully places the letter back into the envelope.

“Perhaps there are people in London, and around the world, who believe Sherlock Holmes was a fake. But I believe in him. Always did. Always will. And I know I’m not the only one."

At that, a realisation strikes John.

"The memories I have of Sherlock," he says, "are only a small piece of him, but they happen to be the only piece I still have. And if he can't live on, I'll do whatever I can to make sure that the memories do."

John stands up from his armchair and looks down at the dog. "Come on, Girl. We're going back to Brixton."

It's going to be painful. It's going to be difficult. But if it means that he can hold on to Sherlock in some way, it's a risk John is willing to take.

Sherlock had always given John a reason to take the risk, anyway.

 

* * *

 

It’s a long journey to Brixton, and not an easy one. The closer John and the dog get, the more anxious John becomes. His hands tremble, his chest is unbearably tight, and at times he starts to feel as though he can't breathe.

Each time that happens, the dog leans into him. Nuzzling her head into the palm of his hand reassuringly, she reminds John of what he's doing, and he pushes on.

Finally, they reach the top of a small hill overlooking Lauriston Gardens, and the two of them stand there silently for a very long time. 

And John tries. But whenever he opens his mouth to speak, his lips quiver, his eyes burn, and he chokes on his words.

He starts to think it all might be a lost cause.

But then the dog hops up onto her hind legs, leaning onto John, causing him to realise how utterly exhausted his body is. So he sits down on a patch of grass, and the dog climbs into his lap. 

John sets a hand on her head and smiles, and she stares back up at him with her trusting, coal-coloured eyes.

"You know," John whispers. "It's hard, all this. To think about him. To talk about him. But I’m no longer going to pretend that the memories aren't real. Because they are. They are just as real as he was."

John inhales deeply.

"So I'm going to begin by telling you about our first case together."

The dog rests her head on his chest peacefully and listens.

“The victim’s name was Jennifer Wilson," he says. "Late 30s. Wearing all pink."

 

* * *

 

John and the dog remain on the hill until sunset. And John shares the memory of that night. All of it. The way he'd felt. The things he'd learned. The way his world had been beautifully altered. 

He laughs. He cries. He allows himself to remember, and he remembers to let himself feel.

That evening, John finally gives his dog a name: Brixton. In memory of Sherlock, their first case, and the night John's life had truly begun.

John never figures out where she had come from. But what matters is that somehow, she had found him when he'd needed her the most.

John's heart is still heavy with sadness over losing the most important person in his life. It may be a long time before he can walk with that weight on his shoulders. But he thinks now, maybe he can begin learning to crawl. 

And later that night, when John and his dog return to Baker Street, he slowly opens the boxes he’d packed, removes his items, and places them back onto their shelves.

_End of Part One._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [PsychGirl (snycock)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/), who gave me the idea for the dog's name. :)


	9. Interlude—Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Holidays are never easy for me,” John continues with a wistful laugh. “But with him, they were bearable.” 
> 
> Mindlessly, he strokes the fur behind Brixton’s ears, swallowing the lump that threatens to form in his throat. “It makes it easy when the person you’re forced to spend them with is the person you’d have chosen anyway.”

Sometimes, John still forgets.

He forgets—when he wakes up on a frosty morning to the booming sounds of construction—that it isn’t Sherlock shooting holes in their walls. He forgets—after a long day at the clinic, when he calls to order delivery for two—that he’s actually only ordering for one. He forgets—on Sundays, when he sees an unsolved murder on the telly—that he can’t text Sherlock to ask if he’s already solved it.

When the harshness of reality sets back in, John wants to lie down on the floor wherever he is and cry. And sometimes he does. Sometimes, it’s so, so _hard_ , and he does.

When that happens, Brixton is there.

Brixton loves John unconditionally, even in those moments he completely gives himself over to grief. She doesn’t judge him for not being able to pull himself together. As John holds her in his arms and he weeps, she curls up in his lap and falls asleep just as she would any other time. 

She doesn’t scold John when he elects to spend an entire day at home because he can’t possibly face the world. She doesn’t give him a peculiar look or tell him that he ought to see his therapist more often, or that he should try to make friends, or exercise more, or drink less.

She’s just _there_ , and she just loves him, no matter what.

She's _there_ , and she's not going to leave him.

***

John stares beneath the Christmas lights decorating the windows of 221B, peeking out into the early December hustle and bustle.

He tries not to imagine Sherlock perched at that very window, playing his violin until the sun goes down (and many hours after). Tries not to picture the swaying of Sherlock’s graceful body to the music, or the twinkle of silver lights bouncing off his coffee-coloured curls. Tries not to allow each and every melody Sherlock had played to echo endlessly inside his own head.

He fails.

“He’d never play Christmas music, exactly...” John mumbles to the dog curled up in his lap. “He said it was trite. Though I did catch him dabbling in some _Carol of the Bells_  once _._ I suppose that’s sombre enough.”

Brixton continues to sleep, lightly snoring.

“The Holidays are never easy for me,” John says with a wistful laugh. “But with him, they were bearable.”

Mindlessly, he strokes the fur behind Brixton’s ears, swallowing the lump that threatens to form in his throat. “It makes it easy when the person you’re forced to spend them with is the person you’d have chosen anyway.”

At that, Brixton begins to stir, groggily tilting her head into John’s touch and nuzzling his hand in a way he finds comforting.

“It hurts a bit now,” John confesses. “When I remember those nights he and I spent together, having no idea how significant they were. They seemed so remarkably simple, painless, and uneventful. But I would give anything to..." John takes a deep breath before exhaling laboriously. “I would give anything to go back and have just one more night like that. One more night with him. One more conversation. Anything.”

Instead, John sits in his chair and tells Brixton of all of the gifts he would give Sherlock if only he could.

The winter is long, and it's cold, and it's rainy. But as always, Spring eventually comes. And even without Sherlock in the world, the trees and flowers bloom.  


	10. Interlude—Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the weather improves, John spends as much time as he can outdoors with Brixton, continuing to visit places he and Sherlock had been. It’s painful, but each time Brixton nuzzles him as the tears well up, he remembers not to let the pain consume him.
> 
> He shares his memories with Brixton—every one a tribute to Sherlock. And she stays right next to him, and she listens, and she seems to know that’s just what he needs.

In the springtime, John is surrounded by new life: the magnolias and the daffodils, the bushes and the trees, and even the grass he walks on. He knows that there is beauty and rebirth everywhere he goes, but without Sherlock, he sometimes remains in the clutches of a dull, grey winter.

But although nothing could ever fill the hole that Sherlock’s absence has left, John decides he may as well try to build a garden around it.

It’s for his own sanity, and for Brixton, and to honour Sherlock.

When the weather improves, John spends as much time as he can outdoors with Brixton, continuing to visit places he and Sherlock had been. It’s painful, but each time Brixton nuzzles him as the tears well up, he remembers not to let the pain consume him.

He shares his memories with Brixton— every one a tribute to Sherlock. And she stays right next to him, and she listens, and she seems to know that’s just what he needs.

John takes Brixton to Chinatown, and he tells her about the time Sherlock had broken into a flat.

“He left me outside without any explanation,” John says. “I was angry at first, but I suppose, eventually, I got used to being left in the dark. Sherlock had a way of ensuring everything was explained in the end.”

After that, they visit a locally-owned souvenir shop where John buys himself a lucky cat. Brixton promptly chews it up three hours later.

On a Tuesday evening, they stroll past Buckingham Palace, and John tells Brixton—in a low, quiet voice—about the time he and Sherlock had been there.

“Sherlock was wearing only a sheet,” he whispers, and as Brixton tilts her head curiously at him, he can’t hold back the laughter that’s sparked inside him. “He stole a royal ashtray, and I think he may have done it just to make me laugh.”

John laughs. He laughs as he tells the story, and Brixton wags her tail and barks playfully, and it’s the first time John has laughed since the spring had come.

He smiles when they return home that evening and he removes that ashtray from a box beneath his bed. And he smiles as he sets the ashtray on his nightstand. And every time he looks at it thereafter, he smiles at the fact that his own smile is the reason Sherlock had taken it.

But it’s not only the cases John tells Brixton about, though the cases are a large part of Sherlock’s memory. During cases, Sherlock had always been larger than life—a perfect caricature of himself, a phenomenon, a marvel. The genius in the deerstalker who solved crimes with finesse and a touch of impertinence while wearing a long dark coat.

It had always been the moments in between that had really counted. The moments where Sherlock had been so normal, so human, and the two of them had shared the plain experiences of an everyday kind of life.

So John tells her about those times, too. He tells her about the time at the corner where Sherlock had walked into a giant pole. He had been ranting about the Yard while texting, and the large knot on his head had been a source of amusement for days.

He tells her about the Greek restaurant where Sherlock had mispronounced the word “tzaziki,” and had pouted for far too long after John had corrected him.

They walk past the giant bin where the two had spent hours digging through rubbish because Mrs. Hudson had “accidentally” tossed Sherlock’s collection of severed toes. Sherlock had never believed it to be accidental, and John still isn’t sure to this day. But Mrs. Hudson would never own up to it, anyway.

It doesn’t get any easier, but John begins deal with Sherlock not being there as a simple fact of life; an inevitable truth that he carries with him.

Over time, he learns to love the stories he tells Brixton, finding them a source of joy and comfort—so much so that he begins to write them down. And by the time Spring ends, he’s got enough memories to fill an entire novel.

And when the summer comes, John starts to think about the ways he can possibly begin to move on. 


	11. Interlude—Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah sets John up on dates with a handful of her friends, and John resignedly agrees to go out with them. He puts on his best clothes and smiles at them and buys them dinner and says goodbye. And then he returns home to pour a glass of whisky and to tell Brixton about why Sherlock probably wouldn’t have liked them, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the grieving process has been long, but hold on, my lovelies. Someone special will be returning soon ❤️

In the early summer, John decides to take two weeks off of work to travel with Brixton. They make a stop at Dartmoor, and the humour of taking his dog with him the second time around is not lost on him at all.

Everyone there remembers him, of course, and they shower him with condolences. He spends the daytime trying to keep it together while people say how sorry they are for his loss, and he returns to the inn in the evening to talk to Brixton. He tells her all about the Hounds case with Sherlock—the laboratories, the glowing rabbit, the time he’d drugged John’s tea—and sleeps without the heaviness in his chest that had formed during the day.

The evening before John returns to the clinic, he stares at himself in the mirror. During his time off of work, he’d admittedly neglected his appearance.

“I suppose I sort of let myself go,” he mutters to himself, eyeing the front of his stomach protruding over his trousers. “But I’ve got to admit—“ he reaches up to the newly-formed beard that grows on his face. “The beard doesn’t look half-bad.”

Brixton sits herself down next to John, gazing at her own reflection and thumping her tail on the ground.

“Glad you approve,” John says. “Though perhaps—“ he continues to stroke his facial hair thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should just shave off the beard and keep it as a mustache.”

At that, Brixton growls lowly, causing John to burst into laughter.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “I don’t really like that idea, either. So, beard it is, then.”

***

As the summer drags on, John finds that he still doesn’t crave the company of others. He’s content to spend his evenings after work with soap operas and takeout and Brixton, but Sarah (and his therapist) tell him it’s unhealthy to isolate himself.

He does speak with Sarah regularly, but she’s typically busy with work and a new man who she thinks she may one day marry.

Marriage. That’s a thing people do—isn’t it?

Sarah sets John up on dates with a handful of her friends, and John resignedly agrees to go out with them. He puts on his best clothes and smiles at them and buys them dinner and says goodbye. And then he returns home to pour a glass of whisky and to tell Brixton about why Sherlock probably wouldn’t have liked them, anyway.

He meets Mary at his job. She’s a nurse, fair-skinned and pretty and funny and seems to like John, so he asks her out on a date.

They go to dinner at a nice restaurant where Mary orders a salad and a glass of white wine, and she asks John all about his outside-of-work hobbies.

“I’m sure you know a little bit about me from the papers,” John responds as flirtatiously as possible. 

“The papers are normally bollocks,” Mary says lightheartedly as she leans closer to John, pushing a wavy blond strand of hair from her forehead. “I want to know the real John Watson—not what the papers say about him.”

John lifts an eyebrow, both surprised and impressed by her candour. Perhaps this evening won’t be so bad after all. “It’s true. The papers do lie most of the time.”

“So.” Mary sets her hand on John’s, and John tries not to jump at the contact—it’s been a long time since he’s been touched by another person.

Mary looks him in the eye with a sympathetic expression. “You’ve had a tough year, haven’t you, John?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” John glances down at Mary’s thin, well-manicured fingers as she wraps them around his. “But,” he continues as he lifts his eyes back to hers, “I’ve been able to get by. I spend time writing and travelling. Just a few weeks ago, I went on a trip with my dog, in fact.”

Something flashes across Mary’s face that John can’t define, but he feels her fingers loosening their grip. “You’ve got a dog, then?” she asks.

John grins. “Yeah. Brixton.” An uncomfortable silence suddenly settles between them. “And what about you? Do you like dogs?”

“Not so much,” Mary replies with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m allergic.”

“Ah.” John’s stomach drops. “That’s—“

A deal breaker.

“—too bad.”

”Yeah,” Mary agrees.

John and Mary don’t go out again after that.

And as Autumn looms around the corner, so does the anniversary of Sherlock’s death—something John still doesn’t feel quite prepared to face.


	12. Interlude—(the) Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. He’s my—“
> 
> _He’s my_
> 
> _Reason_
> 
> “He’s my friend. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a re-enactment of the fall from John’s pov, and it’s pretty angsty.
> 
> If you’re not okay with that type of thing, skip the first section :D

“John. Look up. I’m on the rooftop.”

_Sherlock? What are you doing?_

John’s heart leaps into his throat; plummets to his stomach.

“Oh, God.”

_It’s all part of a plan, right? Some game you’re playing?_

But John knows, somehow.

He knows, he knows, he knows—the exact moment he gets the call. Something is going to happen to Sherlock, and there’s nothing John can do to stop it.

John is paralysed with dread. Frozen. He stares up at his best friend, clutching his mobile phone to his sweat-drenched face.

_Come down. Come down here and we can talk and it can all be okay._

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly...in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up.”

_Shut up, shut up. I know who you are. I know all of you._

“The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

_I know the genius public persona, I know the man that mispronounces words and knows nothing of the solar system._

_“_ Nobody could be that clever.”

_I know you._

_“_ You could.”

_Take it back. I know you. I know you._

“This phone call— it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

_No._

_You’re Sherlock Holmes you’re indestructible you’re a hero you’re—_

“Leave a note when?”

John knows, because he’s planned out notes in his own head. Back when he’d been discharged from the military, when he’d had nowhere to go and nobody to go to, when he couldn’t even walk without a cane. When the handgun had remained loaded in his top drawer, and not for his protection.

Before he’d met Sherlock, and he’d found his reason.

_No, no, no. Things are okay, things are fine now. I did everything I could to protect you. You’re not leaving a note._

“Goodbye, John.”

_No NO. Christ, no, don’t don’t don’t. Don’t. Dont. Dont._

And when Sherlock falls, John’s entire world falls with him.

_No._

_God, no_

_Don’t—_

John doesn’t think about what he’s doing, he doesn’t have to, it’s always been his instinct to protect Sherlock, like breathing, to help him, and he’s fallen, and John runs, runs, runs to him, and—

_He’s still okay and it isn’t a head injury perhaps he’s still okay he’s still okay_

_Just a few broken bones, maybe he’s still okay_

_Sherlock, please don’t be—_

_Oh, God, I need you_

_Sherlock._

“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. He’s my—“

_He’s my_

_Reason_

“He’s my friend. Please.”

_Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please please please_

_Don’t be—_

_I need you, Sherlock, please, I need you_

Then, John sees the blood.

And he sees that Sherlock’s bright, burning eyes have gone completely dull. And he feels his pulse, and his pulse isn’t there, and his heart isn’t beating, the heart that’s so full of love that nobody else sees but John, because John knows him—

_No, please no, please no, no, no._

The grief and shock weigh so heavily on John that all he can do is fall himself, fall to the ground and not move.

_Don’t be—_

***

John’s body shoots upwards in his bed, freshly-formed tears already pouring down his cheeks as he gasps for air.

It’s been nearly a year, and he still has the same dream. And every time he wakes up, he wakes up to a world where it’s real.

Brixton has made her way into John’s bed and into his arms, just like she always does. It’s as if she knows what he dreams about.

She buries her face into John’s chest as her whimpers blend with his muffled sobs. John wipes the tears from his face before half-heartedly reminding Brixton that she’s not allowed on the bed. But she burrows in next to him as closely as she possibly can, and he folds his arms around her, and they fall back asleep curled next to one another.

***

On the anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John wakes up tangled in blankets and duvets and a pile of furry canine.

He knows exactly what he’s got to do. He’s got to face this directly, just as he did when he revisited the place where he and Sherlock had their first case. It’s scary as hell, but he knows he can.

“Morning,” he mumbles at Brixton. “Today’s the day.” He rubs his eyes sleepily as Brixton yawns with a small whimper.

“It’s been one year,” John continues, taking her head into his hands and looking down into her dark eyes. “It’s time to take you there. I’m going to share the story of what happened on that day at Bart’s.”

_End of Part Two._

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to all of my friends for your input and ideas. 
> 
> [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe), [agirlsname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname), [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia), and [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn), all of whom are currently publishing wonderful stories themselves. Go check them out! 
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> Readers- I love your feedback! Your comments and kudos inspire me to write more!


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